The Trail Killer

Nine

Shields had worked with Gooch long enough to know that his way of conceding that someone else may have made a reasonable point wasn't through an admittance of the fact, but by immediately changing the subject.

"Listen sergeant, you haven't been there in the interrogation room with us. I'm telling you, it's like Foreman versus Frazier in there. Guy's on the ropes, knockdown after knockdown after knockdown."

Beside him, Bridcutt arched an eyebrow in surprise. "Didn't know you were into boxing, sir."

"Back in my national service days, was barracks champion, lad. Middleweight."

The constable couldn't resist a smile. "Middleweight?"

"Yes," came the hissed response, "middleweight." Gooch turned his attention back to Shields. "You know how it finished, Foreman versus Frazier?"

Her shoulders tossed out a shrug. What the hell did she care about bloody boxing?

"Technical knockout, second round. Guy had hit the canvas so many times the ref just couldn't let it go on. Bet you a week's wages the same thing's about to happen here." His tone then took on an added earnestness. "The Chief Constable's hopeful of a successful resolution this very afternoon. The guy's family, I'm thinking. That'll be the key. His weak point."

Shields observed her superior with something approaching a scowl. "Bit below the belt, isn't it?"

Gooch half-smiled, as if impressed by her continuance of the boxing theme. "Joe Louis, Sugar Ray Robinson, Muhammed Ali - even the best were prone to a sly one in their opponents' private parts now and again." He turned then, tapped Bridcutt on the shoulder. "Come on then constable, let's get back to it."

"But sir," she called after him. "I was hoping to get in there myself."

He paused his step, twisted her an apologetic grimace.

"Perhaps better if not, don't you think eh sergeant?"

*

Willis returned from the corridor outside with two polystyrene cups in his hands. With an attempt at an encouraging smile, one was placed in front of Shivay.

"Caffeine, Gupta. We need to keep our wits about us. Sly old bastard, that Gooch."

Shivay took a dutiful sip: some vague approximation of coffee perhaps, but he wasn't quite sure.

The legal aid collapsed down into his seat. "Listen, if you can't tell them where you were on Tuesday morning, maybe you could at least tell me."

But no, this wasn't a valid option either.

Further down the corridor, they could hear the approaching boom of the inspector's voice like a tsunami bearing down upon a shore.

Willis leant across, directed a hushed voice into Shivay's ear. "It's not looking good, Gupta, I have to admit. But if that's it - if they've already shown their cards, let's say, and the ID parade didn't work out how they expected - then there's still hope. Oh, you'll remain under their spotlight, have no doubt about it, but as things stand they haven't got enough to charge you with. Sooner or later, they're going to have to release you."

But Shivay had lived longer than his legal aid. Had suffered more. Was confronted each morning in the bathroom mirror by a face scored with worry and disappointment and circumstance. A visage shadowed and spent. Too darkly hued to be just a summer tan.

Oh, no-one knew it better than him: optimism was the realm of white people and fools.

*